GLASS ANGEL

Set high in the west wall of the vestry, pulsing in the lambent glow of evening, a tall stained glass angel gazed down through jet black eyes at the naked form of Stanley Bell, who lay spread-eagled and unconscious, on the vestry cot below.

Stanley Bell, soft and sensual, was completely unaware that he had less than 24 hours to live. Young Stanley had been conceived twenty seven years ago during fifteen minutes of wild abandon by a young, egocentric curate intoxicated on religion and hormones, and a sixteen year old girl made dizzy by the multiples of communion wine, puberty, and the desperate need for true love.

When the sixteen year old discovered her condition, blind infatuation and a fear of losing his love prevented her from naming the petrified curate and he, in his cowardice, audaciously advised the hopeless parents to pack up and move to another town. The only thing they gained from the move was a whispering small town notoriety, from which they never recovered.

The thin, pale, girl nourished Stanley Bell’s developing form for the nine month term with courageous determination. But, was so torn and ruptured during delivery that it wasn't until four days later that she was handed the tiny snuffling bundle to suckle. Despite the murderous birth she was drawn to him and soon had him enveloped in milky love. She was blind to any of his differences and never noticed when he occasionally glowed, with a powerful translucent light, through his skin. Some of the nurses were terrified. One male nurse said it was enough to read by.

When Stanley Bell was three months old his mother gathered their meagre belongings and left home and with a stamina that surprised the few people that knew her, coped gallantly from day one. For the next three years she resolutely battled on, but then she made a simple mistake. She took a powdery substance provided by a lank youth at the drop-in centre. It made her feel very sleepy and very good, but some time during the night, as she swirled through chemically induced ecstasies, she rolled on Stanley. Next morning when she saw he wasn't breathing properly she rushed him to hospital. A large, stiff, staff sister, whose thighs whistled when she walked, and an itchy little doctor with eczema, diagnosed a rib fracture. They skilfully noted Stanley’s mother’s unbrushed hair, inscrutable eyes and nose stud; and that was the end of that. One quick phone call brought the in-house social worker, who arrived bristling with cleverness and social idealism.

Within a month Stanley had been wrenched from his mother and subpoenaed fully and comprehensively into the suburban nightmare. He now had foster parents who were so indoctrinated they actually believed politicians, nature programmes, and in the Australian dream.

Stanley's mother went into decline. She removed her nose stud and got a job as a tall, emaciated secretary with red nails. The weekly pay cheque only afforded her a damp, one bed flat where she spent the evenings alone in a cold vinyl chair. She had no TV so most of the time was spent watching a lone goldfish mindlessly circle the fish bowl she'd sat on a wooden stool by the window. She'd end up, tears streaming down her face, head thrust forward, fingers clawing the chair, willing the fish to escape. But of course it never did and so, about once a fortnight, she'd lose control and in a white rage scoop the fish up in her bony fingers, toss it into her mouth, crunch it up and swallow it. Then she'd sleep with just the ghost of a smile brushing her lips. Always on the day after one of her little fish suppers, she'd purchase a new one at the pet shop on the way home from work.

But now, in the silent cavernous church, beyond the bolted vestry and its black eyed angel, at the convergence of the nave and transept, stood the desolate bulk of Billy Buchanan. He stood in a shaft of moonlight, barely breathing. It was he who'd bludgeoned and stripped Stanley Bell and dumped him on the vestry cot under the black eyed angel. It was he who'd also coshed and stripped the tall emaciated woman who now sat cold on the floor tied loosely to the end of the cot.

Billy began to pace about impatiently, he had one more person to incarcerate and according to his contract, if he stayed where he was the customer would come to him. He had an open flask of whisky in his coat pocket and had drunk enough to bring his scaffold down and turn his eyes to stones. He had another shot and began to think lewd thoughts of the skinny woman.

Outside in the church grounds, creamy moonbeams poured over a weathered nymph, giving it a soft, sensual appearance and there, half hidden amongst the shrubbery, reeling under the weight of a sack of bibles stood Anderson the vicar. He was stinking drunk after three months abstinence and, returning through the fields to the church, had come across the spectral nymph and found himself suddenly and inexplicably in a desperate state of sexual arousal. At about that time Billy Buchannan came outside to pee and found the vicar standing wet-eyed with a sack-full of bibles beside him and the front of his habit tucked under his chin.

Billy's eyes glittered dangerously because he remembered his own God fearing Mother trotting off twice a week to confession when in his opinion she'd never technically sinned. She may have crushed the natural buoyancy of her children and forgotten to send a card to her dying aunt in Kerry but she'd never intentionally sinned. These thoughts pounded about Billy's dull brain as he stared at this man of the cloth abusing himself with the hand that the believers would kiss on Sunday.

Billy stepped forward and kicked the vicar hard in the balls. The resultant scream woke Stanley Bell who found himself looking straight into the eyes of the naked woman tied to the end of the cot. The woman blinked and shivered so Stanley threw a blanket over her and as he glanced away he came face to face with the fifteen foot tall, black eyed angel. Hardly daring to breathe, he curled into a foetal shape, and, locking eyes with the angel, began to glow with a throbbing, translucent light.

Within minutes the vestry door burst open and the vicar and his bibles were pitched in. The door was immediately slammed shut and bolted, leaving the vicar doubled up and sobbing. Once he blubbered into the bare floor: "You don't know what it's like, how could you?"

Buchanan leant against the wall of the nave under a grimy rendition of The Last Supper and dialled out on his mobile phone. When it was answered all he said was, "They're all here," then snapped his phone shut. The church and all its wretchedness squeezed his head so he lit a cigarette, flicking the spent match out amongst the tinderbox pews, dry oak beams and the light blue vapour from the multitude of drifting hopeless souls.

Soon after, a lone car passed down the lane, slowed and turned into the church yard. A door slammed then high heeled shoes crunched up the path. A heavy metallic clatter from the door latch and an enormous groan from the hinges ripped around the roof and walls and in walked Kathleen, a stripper from Dublin with her clothes on.

Buchanan heaved his bulk towards her, grinning with his mouth, hard intention in his stone eyes. She'd seen them all, drunk, weak, aggressive, scared. She faced him squarely which stopped him dead, then tossing an envelope into the dry marble font asked where they were.

"They're in the vestry," he growled, then barged past her, eyes hard down, snatched the envelope from the font, crashed the church door open, stormed into the night and roared “BITCH!” in one single, impotent bellow.

Kathleen unbolted the vestry door, walked in and locked it from the inside. She looked without expression at Stanley and the tall naked woman. She took in the two separate piles of clothes, the broken plastic bag and dead goldfish on the carpet. She stood astride the vicar who whimpered and pushed his face to the floor, then, tossing her cigarette into the empty grate she sat in the vicar's reading chair, crossed her legs and hugged in her coat.

Stanley, without taking his eyes off the angel, asked.

"What's all this then?"

"My name's Cindy." answered Kathleen.

"So what's all this about?"

"Values."

"Can I get dressed?"

"No."

"What about her?"

"She's okay as she is."

During that first hour one more car passed down the lane, but other than that, silence. The vicar's desk reeked from the copper smell of black sermon ink and oiled leather and at the opposite end of the room to the glass angel a cold fireplace, a cheap brass companion set, a mantelpiece scattered with family photos and a muddy portrait of Anderson. The room suffered desperately.

At a time indistinguishable from any of the other bits of time that had so far passed, Kathleen let her coat slip to the floor then moved like a lazy cat to where the vicar crouched near the door. His large bony head was twisted away from her, his dissipated skeletal frame lost amongst the voluminous spread of his black habit. She poured him sherry from a decanter and, getting him to sit up properly, smoothed his hair and kissed his cheek. He closed his eyes and held the ruby elixir to his chest like a crucifix. She poured three more but Stanley refused to drink.

The tall woman sipped hers, then, putting it aside looked calmly at the vicar. Her chiselled face somehow seemed to perch on her long neck and she blinked flat like a bird. The vaguest of smiles brushed her mouth. ‘I've changed so much,' she thought, ‘even if he dares look at me he wouldn't recognise me.'

Kathleen turned to her. "You're Ms Adams aren't you?"

"Yes."

"You know me, don't you?"

The answering voice seemed disconnected.

"You serve at the pet shop sometimes."

"Do you know what this is all about?"

Ms Adams looked away. "I only eat them when I'm feeling bad."

Kathleen smiled brightly. "I didn't know you ate them, I thought you might be drowning them." She laughed very briefly then leant closer, serious. "I own the pet shop, sweetie."

"I didn't know that."

"You know a goddamn sight more about this situation than you think you know, sweetie."

The vicar hissed through his teeth. "Don't blaspheme in this house."

Kathleen spun around and squeezing his face with her hand, distorted his mouth open, then, ramming the neck of the decanter between his lips forced him half choking to swallow great gulpings of sweet sherry.

"STICK TO THE SHERRY, PRICK, I'LL DO THE MORALIZING!"

She strode up and down the room, her mouth drawn crooked, then, in an instant she stopped, smiled, smoothed her dress and sat splay-legged in the reading chair smoking a cigarette.

"And what do you know about all this?" she addressed Stanley.

"Nothing I swear, I'm an innocent."

"I'm an innocent," she mocked him in a whining voice. "Do you know me?"

"I've never seen you in my life, what do you want?" He was getting scared.

"You know me all right, boy."

"Of course not."

"Of course not," she repeated.

She got out of the chair, opened the glass fronted cabinet to the right of the fire place and fossicked among the books until she found a slim publication entitled Marriage Ceremonies. She tore a page from a note pad on the desk and scratched a few words down with the vicars Parker Imperial then tossed the marriage booklet into the empty grate and dragged Stanley off the cot to stand before them.

"Hold her hand," she hissed to the vicar pulling the thin woman's hand towards him. He held her hand with a complete lack of energy. Kathleen grasped the empty decanter by the neck and holding it in a threatening manner above the Vicars head turned to Stanley.

"Marry them," she commanded and thrust the scrap of paper at him.

He gazed at it, mouth open, then murmured to the vicar,

"Do you take this woman for your wife?"

"Yes," whispered the petrified vicar.

He turned to Ms Adams. "Do you take this man for your husband?"

Ms Adams nodded.

"You may kiss the bride."

They kissed with dry twisted mouths eyes sleud to the side and when they'd finished the room seemed even more hopeless. But that state of hopelessness gave Ms Adams just enough abandon to be able to look at the leather topped table where she'd had her first carnal experience. Sixteen and high on illicit love, communion and puberty. She and the curate Anderson had devoured each other like wild horses, their faces smeared in fish oil as they fed each other sardines from mouth to mouth. And as the vicar's sperm flooded her she'd arched her back and stretched her arms towards the stained glass angel and cried, "SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN."

She now looked straight at Kathleen, her voice a monotone. "I was under anaesthetic, I didn't know, I'd always wondered, I sort of had a feeling, they never told me ... I can see it now ... you have my mouth ... Stanley has his eyes."

Kathleen had begun putting the pieces together six months previously when the vicar lay curled up and babbling in her bed above the pet shop; 2 hours' comfort for £40.00, no sex. He'd become a regular, she'd made sure of that. For the first time that night the vicar looked up, showing his rheumy cornflower blue eyes. As they met Stanley's and Stanley's knees began to buckle, Kathleen held him up and whispered to him.

"Hello my little twin brother."

As though suddenly scooped empty Kathleen and Ms Adams crashed to the floor falling amongst the scattered bibles and fish water; mother and daughter sobbing, kissing and wailing endearments until, completely drained they lay still. Ms Adams stretched out on her side stroking Kathleen's hair, and while Kathleen pushed her face between the wasted breasts the vicar shuffled to his corner cabinet and brought out three silver chalices and a glass demijohn of altar wine. "I'm sure the good lord wouldn't mind," he said, and the three of them, Anderson, Kathleen and Ms Adams huddled under a blanket, backs against the panelled wall and drank. And as the altar wine took its hold the three of them disappeared into a small tight world where they failed to notice Stanley's flesh glowing and didn't even notice when the black eyed glass angel began to vibrate, nor did they notice until too late the acrid smell of burning oak. Billy Buchanan’s match had gone down between a crack in the floorboards and faint air currents had kept it smouldering among a network of cobwebs all that night. It can only be regarded as fitting that an abandoned rats' nest was the catalyst for the main conflagration. None of them even attempted an escape, indeed Ms Adams, Kathleen and the Vicar Anderson refilled their melting chalices with hot altar wine seconds before they perished in a fire ball and drank to togetherness, wherever that might be.

As the fire fighters approached the vestry door with axes, they were stopped dead in their tracks by a human cry that lasted an inhuman length of time and brought part of the transept roof down. Some said it was a cry of joy. But the investigating fire officer, who preferred facts to fantasy, was more intrigued by evidence of a fourth set of clothes when he'd only found three bodies. The mibbling congregation, even when faced with such a disturbing conundrum, could only find in their hearts anger at the gleeful newspaper reports detailing the obscene death of their vicar, who, according to those reports, perished drunk amid flames with a naked secretary and a fully dressed stripper from Dublin. The church was badly damaged, only leaving walls, the stained glass angel and part of the roof. The Last Supper was burnt to a cinder.

After an enormous struggle however, putting their trust fully with God and a sort of crocked intuition and also to avoid future embarrassment, the congregation decided the new vicar should be a woman. They nervously chose from a long and tedious line of contenders and so, soon after the rebuild, they welcomed through the smart new doors the new vicar, a tall emaciated woman with red nails who blinked flat like a bird. She brought with her a feisty daughter of some twenty nine years who had an unsettling effect on the men of the committee and congregation and a stooped, tippling husband with weird blue eyes.

If only the committee had known. Every Sunday after Sunday school and bible class. After matins, the main service and evensong. After all the funerals, christenings and wedding ceremonies. After the faithful had prayed and sung and knelt and made silent but vicious little judgements about one another and been ushered out and bade goodbye at the big church door and the door bolted and windows shut and locked. And after the late evening sunlight had slipped across the backs of the pews and vanished put the windows and all the light blue vapours from the lost and desperate souls had seeped back into walls for the night, Then and only then would the newly installed vicar gather her family into the vestry, where three places were immaculately laid on the leather topped table. At each place, on a clean white plate, a glistening sardine. Her cadaverous and haunted husband would say a prayer and then looking about him with large wet eyes, would fill three chalice with fortified altar wine and they would all turn to face the stained glass angel and raise their glasses and the vicar would intone, "Bless you, my son." And the stained glass angel would vibrate and glow with translucent light and smile at them beautifully through its wild cornflower blue eyes.